₊⊹𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚒𝚐 𝚂𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗*ೃ༄
𝟣 - 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ word count; 1,514 summary; sam wakes up somewhere unfamiliar, in a life that doesn't belong to him. he's thrown into a world full of bright lights, scripts and expectations—where you know him, but you don't like him. by the end of the day, it becomes clear that what happened to him wasn't an accident. tags; disorientation, identity confusion, mildly emotional distress, au, culture shock, sam w. as jared p. 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 ꨄ︎ 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛
𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚘3! 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎? 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎!
Sunshine peers through the windows and the rays fall onto Sam’s face. His arm is raised above his head, sheets shielding his bare torso, and one leg is untucked from the covers. The faint warmth from the light wakes him up, rubbing one eye with his left hand.
“Mornin’,” he grumbles, shuffling onto his side. He opens his eyes and is greeted with an empty bed.
It’s not his bed, either.
“Y/N?” He calls out, confused. His brows furrow as he squints into the morning light–pushing the stray hairs out of his face.
He sits up, looking around at the painfully white hotel room. Walls washed thin of any sort of colour, ceilings higher than the bunkers and windows taller than anything he’s ever seen. The room itself is spacious, the bed is on a circular platform to the left of the door. White, voile curtains hang from at least twelve feet high.
Sam frantically looks around the room, searching for something–anything–to show him that he’s dreaming.
But it all feels too real.
Before he even gets a chance to think about what’s happened, a ringtone jolts through the phone’s speakers, with the name Eric Kripke in bold, white writing.
His thumb hovers over the answer button, afraid of who’s on the other side.
“Hello?” Sam’s hesitant at first, taking a deep breath.
“Jared,” Eric replies, his voice rushed and impatient. “Where are you? You’re ten minutes late.”
Sam pauses. Who the hell is Jared?
“Oh, uh–right. I just woke up. I’m sorry…” Sam trails, trying to find the right words to appease Eric.
Sam pushes himself up against the headboard, bare chest now slightly damp with panic. He runs a hand through his hair, a breeze whispers through a crack in the open window, the mesh drapes flowing like silk, casting light shadows across his torso.
Eric sighs. “Just get to the studio, okay? You’ve got a scene to shoot with Y/N. Hurry up.”
Before Sam can even respond, Eric hangs up and leaves Sam with the thousands of questions inside his head. He throws the sheets off of him, his bare feet touching the cold, waxed floor beneath him. He pads over to the dresser beside the bed, pulling a drawer open.
Sam examines almost every item of clothing in the drawer–clothes that are his size, but absolutely not his style. Chinos, plain button-up shirts, scarves? Who does this ‘Jared’ guy think he is?
The phone chimes with a quick twinkle. An incoming text from… Gen?
Good luck on set today! Can’t wait to see you later ;)
He doesn’t even bother replying–instead he just scrolls up to previous messages, looking through pictures.
Pictures of them. Together. Texts–hundreds if not thousands of messages back and forth, full of ‘I love you’s’ and ‘I miss you’s’.
Sam exhales slowly. The words are tender, overflowing with warmth in a way that makes his throat ache. Whatever else Jared is, it’s clear that he loves her. That part is real.
As soon as he’s ready, he grabs the phone from the bed, opens the Maps app and begins his descent downstairs to the lobby.
The lobby is cavernous, bustling with staff, assistants and camera equipment. Everyone greets him like they know him.
Like he belongs here.
One man in particular steps forward in a sharp suit, clipboard in hand, with that slick smile Sam would recognise anywhere.
“Morning, Jared,” he says smoothly, “rough night?”
Sam freezes. His stomach drops. He knows that voice–that grin–but here, he’s got a headset and a laminated ID badge swinging from his neck.
Gabriel, Production Manager.
Sam’s mouth gapes open as Gabriel shoves a cup of lukewarm coffee into his hand, steering him toward one of the rooms backstage. Gabriel glances at him just once, but Sam can’t keep his eyes off of him.
Sam stops in his tracks, pulling Gabriel with him.
“Gabriel,” he scoffs, “what the hell are you doing here?–hell, what am I doing here?” He hisses, keeping his voice to a minimum. Gabriel tuts. “What are you talking about?” he chirps, acting like everything is normal. “You’re at the best hotel in Vancouver, silly. You’ve got a scene with Y/N in an hour.”
Sam sighs deeply, clenching his jaw in frustration. Gabriel looks behind him, ensuring no-one can hear him: “Save the theatrics for the cameras, diva. Kripke’s already chewing drywall because you’re late. Wouldn’t want to keep your favourite co-star waiting, would you?”
The words are pitched just loud enough for the nearby crew to hear. Joking and professional, but the glint in his eye mocks him.
Sam stares, fury and confusion boiling under his skin, but before he can get a word out, Gabriel’s already flagging down an SUV. “Come on, Padalecki. Chop-chop. You’ve got fans to disappoint.” He wins, then ducks away, vanishing into the lobby chaos.
Sam’s shoved into the backseat before he can fight it.
The ride is a blur, city streets flash by until they pull up to a studio lot. White trailers and soundstages looming high. The crew dart in and out with clipboards, props and costumes. His chest tightens.
This is too much too fast.
The moment his feet hit the pavement, people descend–someone slaps a script into his hands, another smoothing his shirt collar, and a third brushes powder over his face before he can even protest. He feels like he’s drowning in a sea of names and instructions.
And then he hears you.
“Finally,” you mutter, stepping out from under a shade tent. You’re already in costume, lines marked on your script and a makeup artist giving you one last dust of blush. Your eyes cut straight through him with undisguised irritation. “Guess we’re all working on your schedule again, huh?”
Sam’s breath catches. His whole world tilts as he knows it.
It’s you. Exactly you. Same eyes, same mouth, same little frown line you get when you’re annoyed.
Except this version looks at him like he’s the last person you want to see.
The warmth he felt from reading Gen’s texts this morning didn’t follow him out of the hotel room, and now it reignites like an ember finding that last spark.
“Great, Sleeping Beauty’s here,” one of the sound techs huff. “Gen must be a saint,” another one adds, “if I talked to my wife half as sweet as he pretends to, she’d never put up with the rest of my bullshit.”
Sam freezes. The words sting–not because they’re aimed at him, but because he’s starting to piece together the box Jared Padalecki comes in. The one he’s trapped inside.
When he rounds the corner toward the set, he feels eyes track him. No-one looks impressed. If anything, there’s a sharp edge to the stares, as though every crew member is bracing for Jared’s next demand.
And standing off to the side, waiting with arms crossed and script in hand, is you.
The look on your face could curdle milk.
“Alright, places!” The director calls, clapping his hands. “Scene fifteen, take one. Let’s go.”
You step onto the mark across from him, script tucked casually at your side, lines are already committed to memory. The way you glance at him makes his stomach knot. Like you’ve already written him off.
“Action!”
Sam opens his mouth. Nothing. The line stutters in his throat, works tangling together until he blurts something completely off script.
The director groans. “Cut! Jared, what the hell was that? Do you even know what scene we’re in?”
A ripple of laughter runs through the crew.
Your jaw tightens, eyes flicking to the ceiling before you plaster on a smile for the director. “Maybe we should give him a minute. Long night, huh?” The words are sweetened with poison, sharp enough that Sam feels them dig into his chest.
He shakes his head. “No, I’ve got it. I just—” But the next take is worse. He fumbles every other word, missing cues, tripping over blocking. By the third restart, the set is thick with exasperation.
When the director finally calls for a break, you round on him the second you’re clear of the cameras. Your voice is low but fierce, every syllable clipped.
“Are you kidding me, Jared? Late again, hungover, and you can’t even be bothered to look at the script?” You jab a finger at his crumpled pages. “Or were you too busy with Gen last night to care about the rest of us?”
Sam freezes. Gen? His mind races. Genevieve. Jared’s wife.
“I—” He swallows hard, scrambling. “It’s not like that, I swear.”
You laugh, bitter and disbelieving. “Of course it is. It always is with you. You don’t care how hard the rest of us work, as long as you get your paycheck and your ego stroked.”
Sam opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Because you’re looking at him like you hate him. Like every soft, tender moment from the night before never existed.
And for the first time, the weight of what Gabriel’s done slams into him full-force.
✧ 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ // ✧𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 // ✧𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ
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